Legal Grounds
by ShannonL
Summary: G1. The Earth Chapter of The Great War. There are many tales of the warring Autobots and Decepticons. But no one seems to remember the stories of those caught in between. This is one of them. My response to Fanchar100. Rated between T and M.
1. Preface

A/N: On Livejournal, there is a challenge in a community titled fanchar100. There is your choice of three sets of themes and you must write 100 fics on these themes or draw 100 pictures. They must all be centered around one of your fanchars, in any fandom. For this challenge I have chosen main RP character, Frostbite.

Global Disclaimer: Transformers do not belong to me, obviously, but corporations and individuals too numerous to name. Frostbite and OCs, of course belong to me, or their respective creators. Please message me if you wish to use them.

Name: Frostbite  
Age: Oh, I write her the entire gamut of her lifespan, though mainly in her teens to nineties. Date of birth 31, 10, 1967.  
Hair: Red that goes gray in her twenties/ Not applicable  
Eyes: grey/ blue optics  
Height: 6'6/ 35 ft (or whatever you peg Ironhide's and Ratchet's height at, she's the exact same height)  
Weight: 200 lb/ 2.9 tons  
Gender: female  
Species: Human/ Cybertronian

Demeanour: Frostbite, born Talia McBride, is not the pleasantest of company around. She's a cynical, stubborn, smart-mouthed, prideful, volcanic, ruthless, highly intelligent, cunning, suspicious, pragmatic battle-axe of a female, not prone of flights of fancy or hysterics. She shows many faces to the world, many sides to her character, so much so that when one thinks they know everything that is to know about her, something new rears its head. She demands respect – and is not afraid to lay into a person with acidic insults or a clenched fist when it's due. A lawyer, she has a knack for reading people and discerning fact from fiction, traits that are essential for the job. She is also a master Go player that enjoys playing games in what spare time she has. It has honed her ability to think ahead and predict the possible and probable ways a situation might develop or an opponent might react, analyse the likelihood of it happening, and come up with an appropriate and effective counter of her own, another trait essential for the legal field. Never one for the trivial niceties and useless genteel courtesies, she values directness and sincerity of voice, mind, and character. Despite all her shortcomings, she has proven herself the most steadfast, self-sacrificing, valiant, and faithful of friends and allies… and despite the gruff, prickly exterior; she is capable of extraordinary kindness and compassion, not to mention more than a bit of den-mothering.

Description: As a human, Frostbite is a giant of a woman, standing at six foot six, a height that proves intimidating for others and (more than) occasionally awkward for herself. Her hair, once red, has prematurely greyed to silver, and either hangs to her back when not pinned up, or is later chopped to a short bob. Her eyes are grey and her skin is unhealthily paled from spending too much time indoors. She favours business clothes, well tailored and as conservatively cut as possible. This is to hide the scar tissue left behind from a very nasty wound in her youth. She has a noted dislike for humidity, which causes her headaches and her joints and wound to ache, preferring the climate to be desert-like. Most will note her looking somewhat tired (and cranky) most of the time. Frostbite also hates to be touched, even casually, by those she doesn't trust and especially by those she doesn't know and that are of her own species; however, from those few that have made it into her confidence, such approaches are acceptable and even welcomed, as she needs some affectionate contact all the same. She enjoys Go, hunting, and fishing in her off-time, as well as the not so occasional glass of whiskey.

As a Cybertronian, Frostbite stands as tall as Ratchet and Ironhide. She is mainly silver, chestplate, feet, calves, lower thighs, arm gauntlets and hands, with her helm, pelvic region, and upper thighs being dark blue. Her arms and single oval decoration on her helm are pearly white. The hood of her alt-mode makes up her chestplate, roof and car rear end resting on her back. Her front tires are located on her shoulders and her doors hang from her back more like a cape than wings. She wears neither mask nor visor, and her optics, as well as her lips, are blue. The rest of her body is designed like most other femmes, allowing for agility and flexibility and speed that their male counterparts can't usually match. Her alt is a silver 2000 Pontiac Firebird Trans-Am edition. She still enjoys Go, however her more outdoorsy pursuits have been left behind, as she only hunted for food (and Cybertronians certainly don't need to prey on the local fauna) and the act is now too similar to the soldierly pursuits she now finds herself forced into. She still enjoys drinking, finding high grade a more than acceptable substitute to whiskey in times of stress.

Fandom: Transformers  
Relationships (with others in the series): Ratchet and Wheeljack (cannon/best friends… a lot of things), Logan (fan-character/father). Other characters, fan and cannon, used as needed.


	2. Sleep

Title: Not Go Softly  
Challenge Set: 3  
Challenge: 1 - Sleep  
Rating: PG-13  
Word Count: 2,333  
Pairings: None  
Summary: To fall asleep is to risk death.  
Other Notes: Late 2003, Frostbite is 36 and Autobot City has been complete for a month. Kindly edited by nom-de-plume13.

_What is death but eternal sleep? - Anon _

The air was cool and moist, the deepening shadows within the trees reducing everything to silhouettes. Somewhere an owl screeched and Frostbite shivered and stamped her feet, trying to get her sluggish circulation moving again and bring some warmth to her extremities.

The early night was breathtaking, with a creamy, full moon throwing too much light upon the coastal forest. The human woman cared nothing for the beauty; she only glared nervously at the satellite and thinned her lips to a grimace. _Bomber's moon_, was her first thought, _perfect… so even if all their sensory systems are shot to hell, they still have a slight chance of seeing us._ Her father had told her that full moons were the best nights for fighter planes and bombers during the World Wars, the time when the ability to strike and fight were based on how well the pilots could see in the dark, before advances in modern technology overcame human limitation. During that time, on nights like these – and she could still hear in her mind the voice of her father explaining this as they watched the fighters doing practice in the airspace above Nellis Air Force Base under moonlight – there was enough light to see the outlines of the blackened cities below… enough so they could pinpoint their targets.

The pilots of long ago could manage to see their targets on nights like these. Starscream and his Elites should have no trouble tonight seeing _them_.

She was quite sure the Decepticon Seekers' night vision – or whatever was the Cybertronian equivalent – had not suffered from the ravages of battle. Her own abilities were questionable; she was already groping around half blind through the sticks and mud, and would have to rely on her ears to warn her of any danger.

Even now her senses were pricked for the not-right thrum of jet engines. And… hopefully, something else.

Silence. Deciding that she had dallied far too long in the little hilltop meadow, she began to pick her way down the slope, batting aside the underbrush and trying not to think about the stretch of burning land she had seen in the not so far off distance. It was best to cling to the illusion of safety and avoid adding to the knots twisting her stomach.

Each snapping twig was uncomfortably loud to her hearing and the distant smell of ash and roasted pine made her want to sneeze. Frostbite felt naked in these woods, she was exposed to the many blinking eyes of the denizens herein and she was weaponless. She cursed herself for her sloppiness; she, though not an expert hunter and woodsman, was experienced enough to be able walk relatively silently through the underbrush. When it was light out. When she could properly see. But still, she was being too noisy.

A moan. Pausing, frozen to the marrow, the woman listened… then relaxed. It was only her would-be rescuer.

There, in a clearing before her, lay the Autobot assigned to protect her and whisk her off the battlefield when the convoy they had been traveling in had been sneak-attacked. Frostbite didn't even know his name, only that he was some fresh faced youngster from Cybertron, straight from Magnus' troops. She'd been shoved in his hands and they'd been told to run. And run they did, even when the mech had been clipped by fire, and the side Frostbite wasn't sitting on, torn open.

They could still hear the fight even at this remote distance.

"Who's there?" A thready whine.

"Just me."

Pure relief. "Are they coming? Did you see any sign of reinforcements?"

"No." A pause, and then Frostbite attempted to soften the blow, "But my night vision's crap, so they could be out there and I didn't notice." It wasn't exactly encouraging the kid, so she dropped it, going on with a more urgent question, "You holding up okay, kid?"

"Fine… just tired." There was an offended pause and the Autobot squirmed in a pool of his own energon, optics dimmed, and managed a petulant grumble towards the shrubs the woman was still hidden in. "Don't call me 'kid'."

A snort. "Until I get something resembling a name outta you, _kid_, then that's what you're going to have to deal with." Scrabbling out of the underbrush, and earning a few twiggy branches snapped back on her face, she hissed, blinking furiously as hot red welts began to raise on her skin. "And don't you _dare_ go into stasis."

"My name is Whiplash, human." The Autobot sniffed, giving a disdainful toss of his head, and hugging his gun to his chestplate, before groaning again as something sparked, blew out, and an all too-familiar liquid gushed anew to the dirt. "And… an… I'm not goin' offline. Takes more than some plate damage and leaky fuel lines to down _my_ kind!"

He was baiting her, and she knew it. She also didn't really care, as she rubbed her neck and decided Whiplash was an entirely appropriate name. She would ache for weeks from that wild ride the Shelby Cobra had treated her to.

"Primus, I should be back there with the others, not playing nanny-bot to some sparkling human femme."

Frostbite gave another dismissive grunt. Sparkling? Every human was a sparkling of sorts to the Autobots, or at least, this Autobot. Always needing their hand held at every opportunity and instruction at every turn. Nauseating. Especially to an older woman like herself. As for the rest… "Hn. Wasn't that my role, _kid_?"

"You, protecting me? Primus have mercy on my spark."

"Suck it up, princess. I'm the only thing you have until they come looking for us," came the prickly reply as the human crossed the clearing, shoulders tense as she rubbed at her stinging face. "Now stop squirming and let me take a look at your side. I _might_ be able to do something for – hey, DAMNIT Whiplash!

_If he goes under, he might enter stasis lock. If he does that – we're both screwed if the fight comes over here!_

Long legs swiftly ate up the distance remaining between them and then…

_Clang!_

"Slag you, human! Why'd you kick my face?"

"You were falling into stasis," the woman grunted, face screwed up in pain as she hobbled back, "And I don't think a mere tap on the shoulder from me was going to do much." Then more somberly she added; "Besides the fight could shift in our direction at any moment. You don't want to be caught napping in the middle of a Decepticon blitz."

"Hrm…" The guns were louder now and Whiplash tightened his grip around his own weapon, trying – and not quite succeeding – to keep his composure in the face of possible assault. "That still hurt."

"Aw, pipe down. I didn't get you that hard. I'm just a _human_ after all."

Whiplash grumbled. His earlier comments about humans and their usefulness and durability (or lack thereof) back in the convoy were coming back to bite him in the form of this gray haired human femme, whom he wasn't all that sure was a femme in the first place. Humans looked pretty much the same to his optics: pink-brownish, roughly robot shaped, and very small and unimpressive. But for such a tiny creature, she had her sting. Her words contained enough venom to put a cyber-scorpion to shame.

"Let me see your side," Frostbite intoned again, "I'm not a medic or any kind of tech, but I might be able to prevent stasis lock."

"Why should I let a – "

"It's either me," Frostbite interrupted, "or stasis lock. Choose now, kid, because if you want to go this alone, I want to start heading for the hills. I might make it too. BUT, we have a better chance, slim as it is, if you can actually shoot when the battle spills over here."

This silenced Whiplash and though a part of Frostbite relished it, she knew things couldn't go much longer without an answer.

"Well…"

"Fine. Do your worst, human."

_You bastard son of a slag scow,_ thought Frostbite as she clambered up the mech's trembling side. "Do my worst. Feh. For your sake, that's exactly what you should be hoping I _don't_ do."

Whiplash wouldn't stop rocking, and the woman swayed and pitched on top of him like a ship in a rough sea. She glared and snapped out, "Stop squirming!", and was minutely satisfied to see him wince at the acid in her tone. Good. If she could scare him stiff, then she could attempt these repairs and maybe… maybe fix things well enough for him to be able to defend them and as a definite bonus, not lose too many fingers in the process.

"STILL!"

Much better.

Cursing as she went to work with cold-stiffened fingers splicing together wires that had been shorn apart by the blast, though they may or may not have been connected together in the first place. Eyeing the slashed coolant tubes and fuel lines, she pursed her lips, removed her blazer and then began tugging at the buttons of her blouse.

"What _are _you doing?"

"A striptease," came the sardonic reply, "Now stop flapping your yap and lemme work."

Wisely, Whiplash shut up.

Ugh. Mechs. Frostbite grimaced as she began tearing up her blouse as soon as she had wormed her way back into her jacket. The silk would have to make do as binding for some of the damaged lines… maybe slow down the energy loss. Hopefully.

This was her favourite Armani blouse. Its destruction should have some value then. Even if it was to save the skid of an Autobot, who, yes, had saved her, but had been an utter prick to her afterwards. A mech, which underneath the superiority complex, was terrified of slowly bleeding to death while a human, one totally unqualified human in these sorts of manners, poked and played with his internals.

The destruction of an expensive blouse paled in comparison to this.

In the end, half the shirt ended up binding the broken lines. The other half ended up binding the cuts and slashes on her hands, all caused by the jagged bits of metal in the wound. Satisfied at her handiwork, and making a face at what she now had to do to avoid contracting hypothermia through the night, Frostbite slid down and curled against Whiplash's chestplate, soaking in as much warmth as she could.

"Wh-what? Stop that! I'm _so_ not a… a… _teddy bear_! Ugh! Leggo!"

"I'm not thrilled about this either, princess…"

"PRINCESS! Why you rotten – !"

"But," Frostbite said as she shivered despite the contact with the feverish metal, "I have better things to do than freeze to death tonight." Making a revolted face as her flesh crawled and she fought against giving the mech another good kick and fleeing into the woods as fast as her legs could take her, she continued, "And since you have orders to protect me till the others arrive, the least you could do is keep me from getting hypothermia."

Whiplash grunted and grumbled at that, and for Frostbite's part, she didn't feel the need to snipe back. She was far too concerned with leeching as much of the heat coming off his overtaxed systems as she could.

After a while, the Autobot's optics turned to the woman huddled against his chest, "You know, I've never been cuddled by a femme before."

"I'm _not_ cuddling you," came the cranky reply.

Whiplash continued as if he didn't hear her, "And the first one is human. I have no luck. But still… I never asked your name, did I?"

"'bout time," she said, "It's Frostbite."

"That's not a human name."

"It isn't. It's my _nick_name. My proper name is Talia. Talia McBride. Everyone prefers Frostbite for some reason."

"Can see why. It suits you. Human names never tell us anything about the person. With Frostbite, everyone can tell you're a –!"

"You're aiming for another kick, aren't you?"

The night went on, and Whiplash and Frostbite continued their squabble through the night; the former never getting the upper hand on the latter.

Dawn broke.

Despite her best efforts, Whiplash had succumbed to stasis as the sun's first rays warmed the clearing. Frostbite herself was still alert, too exhausted and wound up to fall asleep. She didn't attempt to move, just kept her weary head propped against Whiplash's chestplate. If anyone were to ask, she would just say she had found a comfortable – though reluctant – pillow and was simply too lazy to move. In reality she could barely manage to stand; the cold night had sapped whatever strength still lay in her muscles.

The guns had stopped firing hours ago.

She barely noticed when the Protectobots burst on the scene, or cared when Streetwise lifted her from the Cobra so a horrified First Aid could stabilize the mech. Things passed so blurrily that it only seemed a moment since their abrupt – and noisy – arrival, to where Hot Spot and Groove loaded Whiplash in the back of First Aid's bay (she had no clue when the ambulance had transformed back) while Blades circled overhead.

She was too busy wondering at the fact that Hot Spot had actual blankets on him, and where he had learned how to swaddle six-foot-six humans like infants. Cocooned as she was in Streetwise's arms, she could only watch as First Aid went tearing away, sirens howling.

"Easy, Frosty," Streetwise warned her as she began to struggle, "You're in shock. We gotta get you someplace warm where Ratchet can look you over."

"Is he dead?"

"No," Streetwise said as Blades descended to airlift her away and First Aid became a speck on the horizon and was gone, "It's touch and go. We don't know yet."

To the remaining Protectobots' amazement, Frostbite let out a croaking laugh.

"He's a bastard," she said by means of explanation, "He won't go softly. He'll live."


	3. Temptation

Title: Open Bar  
Challenge Set: 3  
Challenge: 85 - Temptation  
Rating: PG  
Word Count: 640  
Pairings: None  
Summary: Dates. Dinner. Drinks. Things Frostbite hates, wants, and can't have.  
Other Notes: Late 2002, Frostbite is 35.

_Lead me not into temptation; I can find the way myself. – Rita Mae Brown_

"Water, please."

"Are you sure, ma'am? We do have a fine collection of wines to choose from for your meal. Particularly ideal with the cedar smoked salmon, steamed asparagus, and roast potato is a white wine, such as our 1990 Grey Owl Pinot Gris. An excellent vintage. Or perhaps you would like to try one of our many cocktails or liquors?"

The desire to drown everything away roared dully in her ears. A drink. Just one. Anything to ease this meeting which promised to be torturous judging by the other man's smile. Or the gleam in his eye as he eyed her across the table.

She hated these so called 'dinner dates'.

The muted clink of silverware on fine bone china was deafening as she turned automatically to accept the wine list. The waiter was indeed correct, The London Grill's selection was vast and superior to anything else she had seen in Oregon so far. She expected nothing less from the exclusive restaurant.

Her 'date' was accustomed to these sorts of settings. The London Grill was one of the few places that he would consider comfortable then, so to speak, and an ideal choice when setting up a rendezvous with her latest mark. And speaking of the oil mogul himself, he seemed to fidget in his black three piece suit as she pretended to scrutinise two different vintages of chardonnay blanc. Which was superior – the Domain de Chaberton or the Sumac Ridge, she mused as she really studied her date. Hmm. She didn't care.

Her first impression was this man was as slippery as the oil he managed. Confident, shrewd, and ruthless. He had no qualms in flashing his success; he wore the air of intelligence and control like his expensive cologne. Here was a man who got what he wanted and was very unused to hearing the word no.

Frostbite gently adjusted the small Autobot insignia pin on her suit lapel to remind him who she was and what she represented. Of what he could stand to lose if he did not behave. The lawyer was not intimidated by his posturing.

She briefly wondered if the Autobots knew just what went on in these meetings and what was at stake. Prime, yes. Prowl, yes. Strangely enough, Sideswipe. The others… she doubted it.

This date was about corporate politics. What she could get from him and what he could squeeze from her. Everything was potentially on the table: resources, connections, technology, favours, a word from Prime or Prowl to just the right ear. All for the right price. If this was done right, it would be lucrative for the both of them.

It made her feel filthy.

Spike felt the same amount of revulsion for these power games, as Carly had confided to her once after they had been on a joint dinner date with their marks, a number of influential politicians. The ambassador had retired to his suite immediately after and had only emerged from the shower long after the hot water had been exhausted.

No, very few could understand why they usually came back wrecks from a supposedly pleasant evening of wining and dining.

She handed back the menu and licked her lips. Her throat was parched; the thirst was nearly overpowering. _Whiskey_. She needed something to burn away the sick feelings inside. Frostbite knew that all she had to do was ask and comfort would be hers. But then she would want another as the night wore on and then another. Her tolerance was such she could get away without looking or sounding compromised, but any lapse of judgement could be disastrous.

She could get smashed on her private stock stashed in her quarters later.

The lawyer pasted on a smile.

"Water, please."


	4. Words

Title: Swingers  
Challenge Set: 3  
Challenge: 88 - Words  
Rating: 14+  
Word Count: 1056  
Pairings: None  
Summary: There are the names we are given. The names we earn. And there are the names that truly define us.  
Other Notes: Early 1998, Frostbite is 30. Mature language and themes are rampant.

_Welcome to the jungle  
It gets worse here everyday  
Ya learn ta live like an animal  
In the jungle where we play  
If you got a hunger for what you see  
You'll take it eventually  
You can have anything you want  
But you better not take it from me _

Welcome to The Jungle – Guns n' Roses

The old saying was true: you couldn't swing a dead cat in an airport hotel bar without hitting a moron. Or a drunk. Or a pervert just looking to get a little. Or all three.

And she just had to get the prize of them all, didn't she?

One that certainly didn't take a hint.

_Jesus Christ…_

Though Talia had never had a partner, she certainly knew the truth; sex wasn't anything like what the masses advertised. It wasn't the sort of transcendent, life-altering experience that the poets hinted at. It wasn't pure or beautiful or even gloriously spiritual. It certainly wasn't the ultimate expression of romantic love found in all the smutty water cooler gossip Talia listened to when no one was watching. The truth was rather less glamorous.

Sex was messy; she knew this; just an endlessly flawed and awkward meeting of two people for a brief amount of time. Male and female bodies were made to fit together, true, but even nature's designs were imperfect. There always seemed to be a lot of fumbling, near-misses that often resulted in bumped noses and elbowed ribs. Love-talk wasn't at all poetic; it tended toward the vulgar and the inarticulate, featuring more grunts than declarations of undying love.

The gossip also failed to mention the squelching noises and the stained sheets. Or even the strange smell.

In fact, the participants found the act frequently unsatisfying and sometimes quite painful. It generally left people sore and bruised in ways they couldn't anticipate. Sex was also more than just a little bit degrading and left one completely open and vulnerable to their partner, and for Talia, experiencing such degradation or such vulnerability was at the bottom of her list. It was something that no reasonably sane person should try more than once or twice. Heck, if it wasn't for necessity of the procreation of the species, any sane person should know better than to attempt to try it at all.

Talia was a sane woman.

The guy who had just bought her another glass of whiskey was obviously not.

"Okay. Fine. You're looking for female companionship for the night. I can appreciate that, but I'm not it. If you go three blocks down, there are plenty of lovely ladies who would love to spend the night with you. Hell, it won't be cheap and I certainly won't speak for your health afterwards… but, hey, you certainly don't seem to be the choosy type, do you? Now shove off."

She shoved the whiskey towards him and signalled for another of her own. No way in hell was she accepting that drink. Talia didn't want him to think she owed him anything.

"What do you mean you're not interested? You're in a bar, drinking shot after shot of Daniels, no ring on that lovely finger of yours, wearing that tight leather number…" the lawyer snorted down into her drink; she had forgotten to take off her biking gear before coming down to the hotel bar, "I'd say you're looking for something – wantin' something bad. And baby, I've got just what the doctor ordered."

"Want?" Talia rumbled, dangerously offended. The man in front of her seemed to think her black and white **no** was actually in that grey realm of playing hard to get. She could smell the alcohol on his breath and smoke on his clothes and curled back her lip in revulsion. Never mind she probably was starting to reek just as badly. "What I _want_ is to get piss drunk in peace."

Glancing at the bartender irritably – to which he shrugged, clearly saying, 'this is a bar, what did you expect' – she gave a last snort and glowered at the papers before her. There were the final papers documenting the sale of her condominium and the transfer of the funds from that sale into her bank account, her severance papers from the Department of Justice, the pass she would use to get onto the nearby grounds of the Ronald Reagan National Airport, and assorted other documents that signalled the end of her life in Washington, DC.

Tonight was her last night. Tomorrow she would meet someone named Skyfire and…

Her thoughts shattered.

There was something running down her thigh. Stroking. Talia whirled and struck, fingers grabbing, digging in and twisting. "Gggh!" the man choked as the woman rose and snarled down at him:

"Listen, pally. I don't know how many times I have to beat this into your thick skull. So here are your options. Either beat a tactical retreat or…" Her fist tightened. "This little soldier becomes a causality of the war of the sexes. Do we have an **understanding**?"

The man nodded, whimpering. She released him and said "Now fuck off!"

Staggering back and clutching his groin, the man managed to make it to the door before firing off a parting shot, "It makes sense why a bitch like you is single. You're freaking ice! Any man that touched you would have his jolly bits fall off from frostbite by the time you're through."

The lawyer sneered and snickered as the man hobbled out as fast as his wounded pride would allow him. "Good," she grunted as she tossed back what was left of her drink. The portly bartender put down one more shot of Jack Daniels and muttered, "On the house, lady. You've earned it."

"Thanks," and picking up the drink, Talia swallowed the contents in one gulp, ignoring the way her throat and belly seemed to explode with flames. She was not nearly drunk enough, but this would have to do.

Sliding a handful of bills across the bar, she grabbed her papers and made for the exit. The woman needed a hot shower, needed to scrub her skin until all of the filth that had collected on her skin from the encounter had sluiced down the drain with the water.

However something caused her to pause for a second and chuckle.

"_Frostbite_, eh? Heh, I like that."


End file.
